


don't sleep in heavenly peace

by blindbatalex



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Christmas fic, Fluff and Crack, M/M, and have to write, anyway here i am a garbage can apparently, god where do i even start, happy holidays!, i am slightly scared the ghost of the real charles vane will haunt my ass now, in every fandom i venture into
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-29
Updated: 2017-12-29
Packaged: 2019-02-23 18:16:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13195815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blindbatalex/pseuds/blindbatalex
Summary: You said "I also enjoyed Charles Vane as the "willing nursemaid" and would love to see more of that as well" and I delivered.Or, the fic where Flint is sick and Vane sings to him.





	don't sleep in heavenly peace

**Author's Note:**

  * For [archynne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/archynne/gifts).



Flint opens his eyes slowly. He is in bed in...not in his usual room at the tavern- it’s too dark for that and the stone floor and walls are dead giveaways - the fort. He is in a bed in the fort, in what does not appear to be Vane’s room. He shuffles a bit to try and sit but gives up when his joints scream in protest. He doesn’t know how he got here, or how long he’s been out - the last he knew he was in the tavern and felt like he was going to throw up. Everything after feels like a long disjointed dream.

Or rather, nightmare.

Flint watches his friends die. They swing and bleed and scream over and over again. Miranda begs for his help. Thomas tells him with hollow eyes that he let them all down.

In between the terror however, there is something else there too - warm like the memories of Christmases with his family, the one he spent with the Hamiltons and something altogether different - _present_.

Water like salvation against his dry lips, offered so gently. A hand holding his. 

A voice rings in the room, in his ears, bright and clear. _I will kill you with my bare hands if you quit now, you bastard._ It sounds surprisingly like someone he knows when it calls him back.

There is singing too, carols from his childhood; the sound is distorted - off-key as a donkey-bleating - but comforting, the words laced with warmth and a care he can’t quite put to words.

Flint coughs. His throat feels parched and there is a jug on the nightstand next to the bed if he can just reach it.

Fragments of his feverish imagination, no doubt. No more real than the tormenting ghosts of his past. They couldn’t be. 

Perhaps it’s the part of him that longs for the domesticity Vane himself so openly derides, given free reign by the fever. 

There are footsteps outside the door and a voice - deep, raspy - talking to someone on the other side of the hall.

Flint panics for a moment; sinks back into the covers. It’s not the noblest of deeds - pretending to be asleep when you are awake but he is too weak still - not ready to confront _him_ now with so little warning.

The door opens. 

Flint focuses on keeping utterly still. He can hear his heart beating in his ears. 

Footsteps, light and quick, enough to bring Vane to the middle of the room probably, a good distance from the bed.

Flint doesn’t know what Vane is doing here; doesn’t know what to expect from him. He will leave probably once he sees Flint is still out.

There is a sharp intake of breath and a much slower exhale, resigned, tired. Sad, if Flint didn’t know any better.

He hears footsteps again soon - as he expected - but they seem to be approaching the bed rather than moving away from it. 

Flint almost makes an undignified yelp when two hands, calloused and strong, wrap around his. He searches desperately for an explanation - perhaps he is still delirious - as Vane draws comforting circles on his wrist and _sighs_ because those events are as likely as the King inviting over crew of the Walrus for tea.

Every kiss they shared has been given and taken forcibly, every touch has been demanding, rough. The world shaped them into the men they are, crushed the quiet sighs and the lingering touches out of them, long before they heard the other’s name. Now seems to be no time to start.

A hand migrates to his forehead and he is treated to a pleased hum. 

“Let’s hope this is the last time for both our sakes,” Vane says, his voice soft and impossibly tender, “it’s time you woke up James.”

Flint can feel his mind jumping from one thought to the next at a dizzying speed - last time for what--last time he visits? last time he holds Flint’s hand? Is he sailing any time soo--

Vane clears his throat. 

“Deck the halls with boughs of holly,” he - _singing_ would be too strong a word - he whisper-murmurs. It sounds not unlike a cat scratching its paw against a slab of wood, or rustling sandpaper, “fa, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la.”

Flint’s eyes open wide as saucers on their own from the utter shock of what he has witnessed. The laugh that escapes his lips is primal and altogether beyond his control.

Maybe the King will invite them for tea after all. Never in his life has he imagined--

Vane tenses where he’s been perched on a chair by the bed, his back suddenly ramrod straight just as Flint’s laughter gives way to a coughing fit.

“You were awake,” he says once he has helped Flint sit up and his coughs have subsided. He looks so put off that it takes Flint every inch of his will to keep a straight face. Even so much as a smirk and he has a sense that Vane will march away in a huff when he is in no shape to run after.

“You were singing,” he simply states instead, “--a Christmas carol.”

Vane’s nostrils flare. “You bloody asked me to, didn’t you,” he snarls, not meeting Flint’s eye. “In between your delirium you said ‘it’s Christmas and no one is singing carols.’”

Flint tries to sound as placating as he can, aware of Vane’s clenched jaw and the way his hands have balled into fists.

“I thought I was dreaming.” 

“Well you weren’t.” Vane stops to take in a sharp breath. “Bloody carols because your life from before - England - still holds such power over you, because you are better than the rest of us..”

“Charles.” Vane yanks his hand back like he’s seen wounded predators do when Flint tries to take it. Flint speaks slowly, aware that the truth may be the only thing that can salvage what they have now - whatever that may be.

“It was torment -- too many ghosts there to haunt me -- but there was a voice,” he looks Vane in the eye, “that guided me through it. Pulled me back when it felt easier to give in. I thought -- I didn’t think it was real.”

It’s like magic then, watching Vane’s eyes open just a little wider, the tensed muscles in his face relax. There is something wary that remains in his bright blue eyes, like he isn’t sure if Flint isn’t mocking him or won’t break into laughter again.

“I didn’t--I didn’t know what else to do,” he says a moment later, the words like a confession on his lips. He doesn’t take his hand back this time when Flint interlaces their fingers.

~*~

“I will end you if you speak of this to another soul, so that it’s clear,” Vane says from where he is standing by the door. He isn’t doing a great job of it if he is trying to sound threatening.

Flint smiles at him and nods. “Not a word.” 

He decides to nap for a bit longer until Vane comes back with the soup he promised, warm and content despite the deep seated fatigue in his bones.

**Author's Note:**

> -Apparently the English lyrics to Deck the Halls weren't written until late 19th century so I'm historically off by a century, but as they say CREATIVE LICENSE. The mental image of Vane singing it was too good to pass.  
> -There are literally three people out there who still care about this pair apparently so if you are one of those three people and you enjoyed this please drop me a line! Quite honestly few things give me as much joy as reading comments.  
> -my [tumblr](https://blindbatalex.tumblr.com/) if you'd like to come be my friend - i still only know two people who watch(ed) this show! let us be garbage together. <3 <3 <3 LET ME WRITE YOU TRASH FIC.


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